James didn't answer immediately, turning the question over in his mind. Finally, he nodded once. "Yeah, yeah, I guess that's all right. " Ma wouldn't want all her recipes just sitting there gathering dust. It was the first thing approaching approval James had offered, and Eliza accepted it for the gift it was. After dinner, the children scattered to their evening routines.
James to help his father with final chores. Matthew to wherever he went to be alone with his anger, the younger ones to play in the fading light. Eliza cleaned up the kitchen, her hands moving through the familiar rhythm of washing and drying and putting away. She was elbowed deep in soapy water when Levi appeared at her side, so quiet she hadn't heard him approach. He held out a tin cup with both hands, offering it like a sacred object.
Eliza dried her hands and took the cup, examining it. It was dented, clearly wellused, with no particular distinction, except for the fact that a small flower had been scratched into the metal. Amateur work, probably done with a nail. "Did you want me to wash this? " she asked gently," Levi shook his head. Then, in a voice so soft she had to strain to hear it.
"For you, Mama's cup. She'd want you to have it. " The words coming from this silent child who hadn't said more than a dozen words since his mother's funeral hit Eliza like a thunderclap. She knelt down, bringing herself to Levi's eye level, the cup cradled in her palms. Levi, this is precious. Are you sure?
He nodded, his eyes enormous and solemn, then even softer. You're nice to Meera. Mama would like that. Before Eliza could respond, before she could even process what this gesture meant, Levi had turned and fled, disappearing into the gathering dusk with the speed of a startled deer. Eliza stayed kneeling there for a long moment, this battered tin cup in her hands, tears she hadn't planned on crying sliding down her cheeks.
She'd spent the last year being told she was worthless, being measured against an impossible standard, and found wanting at every turn. And now this quiet little boy who barely spoke to anyone had given her his mother's cup and called her nice. It was such a small thing, such an impossibly small thing, but it felt like being handed a piece of the sun. "Miss Morland," Bose's voice from the doorway made her start. She stood quickly, swiping at her wet cheeks with the back of her hand, trying to compose herself.
"I'm sorry," she said. I was just Levi gave me this cup and I Catherine's cup, Bo said quietly, stepping fully into the kitchen. She drank her morning coffee from it every day. Claimed it kept the coffee hotter than any other cup in the house, though I think it was just because it was her favorite. He said she'd want me to have it because I was nice to Meera.
Eliza's voice cracked despite her best efforts. I don't think anyone's called me nice in a very long time, Mr. Thatcher. Bo moved closer, his boots soft on the clean floor, and gently took the cup from her trembling hands. He turned it over, finding the scratched flower, his thumb tracing it with obvious familiarity.
"I did that," he admitted. "Cratched that flower on there for her first Mother's Day after James was born. Wanted to give her something special, but we didn't have much money, so I took a nail and spent an evening scratching this sorry excuse for a daisy into the tin. She cried when I gave it to her. Told me it was the most beautiful thing she'd ever seen.